


What Could Have Been

by ArchangelEquinox



Series: Once a Rogue... [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Poor Alistair, Redcliffe, The Blight (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-16 19:03:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelEquinox/pseuds/ArchangelEquinox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warden Alana Cousland, Alistair, and the rest of their gang celebrate the defeat of the undead at Redcliffe before they set off to save the Arl.  Drunkenness ensues, with mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Wynne passed Alana another glass of wine and the rogue accepted gladly.  The festivities in Redcliffe were dying down – drinking for almost 10 straight hours would do that to you, no matter your tolerance – but most of her little team were still awake and functional.  They knew, after all, that the demon trying to control the town might be gone, but Arl Eamon was still in danger, and they knew too that in the morning, they’d be heading off toward Denerim to find the mysterious Brother Genitivi and the Urn of Sacred Ashes. 

            For now though, they were enjoying themselves.  Leliana and Zevran were falling over each other in the corner of the tavern, his low voice intermingling with her laughter.  Wynne was sipping a posh glass of wine with the other representatives from Kinloch Hold, whom they’d be dropping off on their way east to Denerim.  In the back corner of the tavern sat Sten, his back straight and eyes staring ahead.  His beer was untouched in front of him, but he actually seemed to be enjoying the stories of the soldiers around him, if his tiny smile was any indication. 

            And Alistair… well, Alistair was at her side, where he always was.  She still hadn't quite figured the Warden out.  Between his good looks and his quick smile, she was well on her way to developing a crush, and for a while he seemed to reciprocate.  Yet since the night she had broken up his fight with Morrigan, things had been awkward, and he'd kept his fumbling, adorable attempts at flirtation to himself.  She knew she had kept to herself too – she didn’t know how to fix whatever had come between them. 

            Tonight, he’d been nursing the same Ferelden pale ale for what felt like hours despite her encouragement to let loose a little.   He hadn't talked much despite his proximity, and she’d long ago outstripped him in sheer volume of alcohol consumed.  In fact, she may have outstripped everyone, but it didn’t seem to be affecting her too badly.  She'd do something stupid by the end of the night if she didn't stop soon, but for now, she was fine. 

            Alana smiled broadly now, pushing her confusion over Alistair to the back of her mind.  She tipped back her fresh glass of wine and drank half of it in one swallow.  Damn, but it felt good to be victorious again.  They had a long way to go, but the support of the mages could be a huge asset when it finally came down to facing the darkspawn. 

            She paraded through the tavern, checking in with her companions and the Arl’s soldiers.  Ser Perth insisted on buying her a drink, and so did Murdock, and before long she found herself in the midst of telling an insanely exaggerated version of the events at Kinloch Hold.  Behind her, though she barely noticed, Alistair was watching her escapades, his eyes darting back and forth between her and Leliana and Zevran in the corner. 

            “And THEN,” she said, her voice rising above the general din of the tavern.  “We found one of the Templars – Alistair! What was his name?” 

            Alistair joined in reluctantly.  “Cullen. We found Cullen.” 

            “Yeah, yeah, Cullen!  So we found him, trapped, and --” She took a huge swig from her mug, sloshing ale down her front, and Alistair stepped in. 

            “Hey,” he said quietly, pushing himself far too close to her so only she could hear.  “Let’s go take a walk, okay?” 

            She immediately protested.  “But – my story!” 

            “They’ll hear it some other time,” he said gently, tugging on her arm.  Her captive audience, now whittled down to only a few people thanks to the combined effects of alcohol and poor judgment, groaned.  She frowned at him but climbed down from the chair she’d been standing on.  The back of it caught on her boot and she toppled forward, giggling all the while.  Alistair caught her just before she hit the floor. 

            “Definitely hearing it some other time,” he muttered, tucking an arm around her waist to prop her up.  He tried very hard to keep her a reasonable distance from his body, the uncomfortable intimacy warring with his feelings of responsibility for her.  She, apparently, felt no such conflict as she threw her arm around his neck, still giggling, and waved at Zevran and Leliana. 

            "Byyyyye!" she called at them, and Alistair blushed as their attention turned toward the drunk Warden.

            Zevran raise an eyebrow and winked at Alistair.  "This looks like an excellent decision, my friend," he said, his smooth accent adding a touch of sass to his words.  "I do hope you remember what I said about arching your back."  Beside him, Leliana dissolved into a fit of giggles herself, and Alana waved at her too. 

            "We're going for a walk, Zev," Alistair grumbled, and moved for the door. 

            "That's what they all say," Leliana called after him.  Thankfully, Wynne intercepted them at the door, quieting the teasing. 

            "Is she all right, Alistair?"  The old mage looked Alana over.  The Warden was examining the buckles on her armor, her face contorted in deep concentration.    

            Alistair shrugged.  "I think so, but I'm going to walk her back to the castle just in case."  He felt Wynne studying him, her astute eyes assessing his surely confused facial expression. 

            "That's probably wise," Wynne said finally, nodding.  She did not comment on whatever she saw in Alistair’s face.  "Do let me know if she needs help with that hangover in the morning." 

            Alistair laughed outright at that.  "No doubt about that."  He pushed the heavy tavern door open and a blast of chilly air hit them.  Alana squealed and clung to Alistair for warmth, but he pulled her outside anyway.  They walked back toward the main road in silence, Alana stumbling on occasion.  She did, however, seem to be sobering up a little; the cold must be helping. 

            Alistair turned them toward the castle, which was their inn for the evening, but Alana spoke up. 

            "Can we walk around the town?" 

            Alistair looked at her.  She was standing on her own again, her steps sure and her eyes clearer.  "Are you sure you wouldn't like to go to bed?" 

            She giggled. 

            "No! Not like that… I mean," he blushed furiously. "Wouldn’t you like to get some sleep? Alone, in your room, no one asking for help in sight…" 

            "Nope!" She twirled in place, her coordination belying her drunkenness.  "Come on, Alistiar, you said you lived here before!" Her eyes lit up and she grabbed his arm, neatly sidestepping all the drama he'd disclosed to her about his upbringing.  "Give me a tour of Redcliffe!" 

            He hesitated.  It was cold out, and even if she was recovering, Alana was still quite drunk.  But he couldn't deny that he liked spending time with her, even if lately he wasn't sure where they stood. 

            Beside him, she bounced on the balls of her feet.  "Come on, an undead-free tour!  I want to see your hometown!"  She tugged on his arm repeatedly, and he felt a small smile creep across his face.  Even drunk, she still inspired him to follow her. 

            “All right, I guess we can--” He was cut off by Alana’s squeal of delight and she took off, sprinting down the path toward the town.   "Andraste's flaming sword…" he grumbled.  "Come back here!” 

            He gave chase, suddenly thankful he’d changed out of his heavy armor.  Ahead of him, Alana disappeared down the last hill into Redcliffe’s Chantry square and he lost sight of her. 

            She leapt out of the darkness as he turned the corner, and he gave a high-pitched squeak that sent her giggling so hard she almost fell off his back.  Instead, scrambling for purchase against his broad shoulders, she pulled herself up until her arms were latched safely around his neck.   Alistair managed to regain his balance and reached back for her legs, pulling them tight around his waist to keep her from choking him. 

            Warmth settled into his chest as she settled herself on his back.  She might be tipsy, sure, but this felt more like their old exchanges, that playfulness she’d always shown around him.  A lot of things rested on her shoulders – her family’s deaths, Ostagar, and the Blight being only the largest – and she took all that responsibility seriously.  But around him, she had laughed and flirted and all around seemed like the young woman she was, and he found himself falling for her even as the world fell apart around them. 

            Only a few weeks had passed since the night he’d gotten in a fight with Morrigan, a fight that Alana had broken up, but things had changed since then.  Alana had pulled away, her eyes not quite meeting his the next morning, and the next night, she'd scooted her bedroll farther away, farther than it had ever been from his.  A barrier between them. 

            He honestly wasn't sure what had caused it either.  Sure, they'd been about to kiss when Morrigan waltzed back into the scene, but shouldn't that mean they could just pick things back up later?  And then Alana had said it was a mistake, and his heart plummeted into his boots.   What had been a mistake that night?  The almost-kiss?  The possibility of romance during the Blight?  Did she have feelings for him but change her mind?

            He hadn't dared to move himself closer again the next night, nor any night since. 

            Alana's warm hand on his head drew him out of his thoughts, and she turned him until he was looking down the main path into the heart of town.  "Show me around! I haven't had anything to ride in months!"  The double entendre was enough to set Alistair's face aflame, and on his back, Alana dissolved into helpless laughter that draped her body further across his shoulders. 

            "I'm agreeing to the piggyback ride and nothing more," he joked, and she gave him a noogie, digging her knuckles into his scalp.  "Hey! My hair!" 

            "Take me around, noble steed!" She bounced on his back, her boots digging into his sides, and he couldn't help it.   He wanted to be around her, spend time with her, give her a piggy-back ride if she so desired.   So he did, leaning forward so she could sit up straight and taking off at a slow jog.  As he moved, he settled his hands to grip her thighs so she didn't fall off his back.  At least, that's what he told himself. 

            Stories spilled unbidden out of him as he maneuvered the torch-lit narrow streets and run-down docks that made up Redcliffe.  What his life had been like in the castle as a child, before Isolde took such a strong dislike to him.  Exploring the nearby hills with other young Chantry-given boys, many of whom were just as lonely as he was.  His favorite fisherwoman to visit, old Nell, who had given him sweets before sending him to run errands for her in town.   He even told her about the abandoned kittens he'd discovered behind the Chantry, the ones he'd brought his rations of milk and porridge to for almost a month until they were big enough to mouse on their own. 

            Alana seemed to love all of this.  With each new story, she leaned closer to his ears to ask questions or giggle at her imaginings of his life.  She ran her hands through his hair and gently turned his head, begging him to show her all the places he talked about.  Her warmth on his back, even as it grew sore from carrying her, made everything tense between them disappear. 

            Finally, after they'd been exploring the town for almost an hour, Alistair let her slide from his back.  "I can't carry you anymore," he explained, suppressing a groan as his muscles released after being in the same position for so long.  Alana pouted. 

            "Fiiiiine," she whined, but took his hand and pulled him toward the Chantry square.  "Let's sit then, so you can tell me one more story." 

            "We should go back to the castle.  It's getting late," Alistair insisted, though silently he sent up a quick prayer of thanks for the Maker for whatever had so changed her mind about him. 

            Alana was not deterred.  She tugged on his hand, squeezing his fingers until he sat down on the bench next to her.  The Chantry towered above them, its sunburst symbol easily visible in the light of the full moon. 

            "Tell me a story," she insisted.  She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and yawned. 

            "I think I've run out," he said seriously.  His hands lay awkwardly in his lap, fingers picking at his nails, as he tried to decide what to do with them.  They itched to touch her, reach for her hands, cradle her against him, but that seemed improper still. 

            "That's not possible!"  She nearly shouted it in his ear and then lurched upright.  She burped suddenly, and almost fell over backward with her ensuing laughter.  Alistair was strongly reminded of just how much she'd had to drink, not least because he could smell it on her again. 

            "Okay, one more, and then bed," he gave in.  "But you have to ask a question or something, I've told all my good stories." 

            "Okay, I'll think," she said, and she scrunched her face up in the most exaggerated thinking expression Alistair had ever seen.  She even put her index finger on her chin.  Alistair laughed despite himself then; she was drunk, sure, but she was adorable.  He felt his heart flutter in his chest. 

            "How did you end up in the Chantry in Bournshire?"  She asked suddenly, and Alistair had to stare hard at her for a moment to be sure he'd heard her right.  He'd only mentioned that once, weeks ago when they'd first entered Redcliffe, and even then… it was a tiny town, little more than the monastery he'd been sent to, and he had never imagined she'd remember this detail about his insignificant life. 

            Apparently, even though she'd pulled away, she'd still been listening as closely as ever. 

            The realization made him smile, even if this story wasn't a particularly happy one. 

            "Well, I told you about how Isolde didn't like me, right?  Thought I was Eamon's son, so she was suspicious of what I represented?"  Alana nodded, her deep blue eyes wide as she listened.   He told the story carefully, choosing his words to avoid rousing pity.  It had been a hard life for a child -- he'd lived in the local Chantry for several years after Isolde became pregnant and demanded Eamon remove him from the castle, and then when the Revered Mother in Redcliffe decided he showed marginal intelligence, she had shipped him off to Bournshire for Templar training.  He had always privately wondered if she hadn't just wanted to get rid of him, both to avoid angering Isolde and to keep him from screaming into the silent Chantry just to see who would come running. 

            Alistair grinned at the memory. He had been a spirited lad, that was for sure. 

With no warning, Alana leaned over and grabbed his shirt, pulling him into her.  Their lips collided, and behind them so did their teeth.  It was a hard kiss, no romance, all desperation, and it sent Alistair scrambling, his story forgotten. 

            He yanked himself away from her as fast as he could -- so fast, in fact, that he fell backwards off the bench they'd been sitting on.  That didn't stop him.  He pushed himself up and kept scooting backward, away from her.  She stared after him, her eyes still wide. 

            Maker's breath, what had that been? She _kissed_ him? His brain focused on that detail and didn't let up, not when he was scrambling in the dirt, not when he'd made some excuse as he'd stood and left, not when he was finally sitting in his room at the castle, his head in his hands. 

_She kissed him_. 

\---

            Alana sat in the Chantry courtyard staring at the space beside her for a long time after Alistair sprinted away up the hill. 

            She was humiliated.

            She had been listening to Alistair's story, she really had!  Trying to maintain the proper facial expressions even though she was imagining just how cute a 10-year-old Alistair had probably been was difficult, but she'd been making it work.  However, the longer he spoke, the more she lost herself watching Alistair's face and hands, the wild gestures he made as he got excited, the shape of his lips as he described how lonely Bournshire had been. 

            She shouldn't have been imagining what else he could be doing with those hands, those lips, but she couldn't help it.  Or rather, all the alcohol she'd consumed couldn't help it.  And then when he smiled! Her heart was forfeit, as was her judgment, apparently. 

            So now she sat, staring at the space he'd left and wondering if she really had ruined it forever this time.    

            After weeks of things being awkward between them, tonight had finally started to feel like _normal_.  Granted, she'd had a lot to drink and Alistair had certainly seemed upset with her when he dragged her drunk ass out of the tavern, but their exploration of Redcliffe had been fun.  She had loved riding on his back, her hands buried in his hair, and it hadn't taken long for Alistair to relax and smile like he used to. 

            The distance between them was her fault, she knew that.  She had been so close to giving in to her feelings, to _him_ , when Morrigan sauntered back through that clearing, and she had sworn to herself that she wouldn't.  Not until the Blight was over, the archdemon slain.  Not until her family was avenged.  And of course by then, Alistair would probably be sick of waiting for her and move on, pushed away like everyone else in her pre-Grey-Warden life. 

She sighed and put her face in her hands.  Back in Highever, back when she was just Alana Cousland, she had never wanted to be hard and cruel like she was.  She had never wanted to drive suitors and friends away, never wanted to learn to hide behind a mask and keep herself forbidden, never wanted to learn to defend herself.  But she had never had a choice.  

            Being a rogue came naturally to her: the stealth, much like her never-questioned noble façade, and the swift move to strike, leaving her victims gasping and wondering what went wrong.  Now that she was a Grey Warden, she could flaunt those skills beyond the noble parties and balls of Highever, and she’d been fairly successful.  A mage rebellion suppressed and an army acquired, a little boy freed from the clutches of a demon, a town saved from undead.  Through it all, she’d kept her cold, noble mask in place, always maneuvering to make allies and never friends, always in control and removed from the emotions of it all. 

            It had to be done, and she hated it.     

            Alistair was the first person who had ever acted like she was something different.  The first person who had wanted to get to know her and not just feign polite interest in her answers.  The first person who had treated her like she mattered as opposed to like a trophy to be held aloft and protected.  He had talked to her like a person, flirted with her like a woman, and never once asked how much her dowry was or if she was still a virgin or any number of other horrific questions she'd endured as a noble daughter. 

            He treated her like she mattered, an entirely foreign concept in her former life. 

            She could be who she wanted with him, and he would never question her otherwise.  And deep down, she wanted to be real, to laugh and tease, to really feel what it was like to _live_ and have a life where she might actually be _happy_. 

            It didn't seem fair to put all that on Alistair.  She had gotten used to the idea of normal as being able to have fun, a normal where she could flirt and enjoy her life between battles.  A normal where she didn't have to fight off suitors or keep herself locked away. 

            But all that could never be normal.  Once the Blight was over, she would return to Highever and take up her role as Teryna, and for that she would have to be as hard-hearted as ever.  Until then, she had no choice but to focus all her energies on saving Ferelden, and nothing else. 

Certainly she could not afford to spend her energy on Alistair, much as she might want to. 

Alistiar: The distraction she didn't need. 

Alistair, whose smile she couldn't ignore. 

Alistair. 

The man she was falling in love with, and she had just driven him away. 

_It will be better this way_ , she told herself.  With a grunt, she forced herself up and stumbled up the hill to the inn, where she promptly collapsed in the corner booth and went to sleep. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

            Alana woke to find Zevran’s surprisingly cheerful face far too close to hers.    He certainly didn’t look like he’d been sloshed the night before, but judging from the inspection he was giving her, she certainly did. 

            Memories of the night before rushed back to her, and she felt her cheeks heat with shame.  Zevran interpreted this as her waking, and sprang backwards, waving his arms. 

            “She lives! Our fearless leader lives!” He shouted, and Alana cringed. 

            “Not so loud,” she rasped.  Zevran offered her a deep bow, extending one hand toward her, and she grabbed it gratefully.  “Thanks.”  She made to pull herself up, but only got halfway before collapsing back into the booth. 

            The tavern spun around her.  Between the crick in her back and neck, the headache, and whatever evil light was attacking her eyes, she was not in great shape. 

            Zevran’s face swam into view again.  “Here, lovely,” he said, forcing a flask into her hands.  “Drink. Wynne’s special hangover cure.”  Alana didn’t hesitate, just dumped the brew down her throat.  It bubbled and burned all the way down, leaving a dank, bitter aftertaste. 

            She nearly choked.  “This works?” 

            “How do you think I maintain my luscious appearance?”  The blonde elf ran a hand over his meticulously combed hair.  He then sniffed and pulled a frown.  “Though I do believe mine smelled better. Less horrific.  Did you upset our resident bosomy mage?” 

            This was too much information for Alana to process at once, so she ignored most of it.  “Just help me up,” she groused, and Zevran obliged, slipping an arm around her waist to support her.  “Maker, why it is so bright?” 

            Zevran looked around in evident confusion.  “How much did you drink last night, my dear Warden?” 

            Alana groaned.  “That dark in here, huh?”  The rogue just laughed as he guided her outside. 

            The sunlight was almost overwhelming as they trudged up the hill toward the bridge leading out of Redcliffe.  Alana tried not to groan as the world continued to spin around her. 

            Leliana was waiting for them at the top of the hill, her excited squeal at seeing Zevran quickly deteriorating when she realized his arm was wrapped around Alana.  Zevran waved happily at her and Alana saw her force a smile, but her eyes were far too dangerous looking for Alana's comfort. 

            The members of their little group were gathered just outside Redcliffe; evidently they were off to a much later start than she’d anticipated, which was fine with her.  Wynne had wrangled the mages into something resembling travel-ready, and they were waiting now, their packs and staffs carefully stowed on their backs.  Far removed from them stood Morrigan, her arms crossed, with Pinkie, Alana's mabari, sitting patiently at her feet.  Her expression softened the tiniest bit when she saw Alana, though she did not move.  Sten waited closest to the road out of Redcliffe, clearly anxious to get going. 

            Wynne made her way toward the two of them, her face a stone mask.  She looked Alana over, tsked at her, and stalked away. 

            Zevran’s gaze followed her, despite Leliana’s puppy dog eyes in his direction.  “Ah,” he cooed at Alana.  “I see I was correct.” 

            “Hm?” 

            “You have upset Wynne.” 

            Alana groaned and scrubbed a hand over her face.  “I don’t know how – she gave me that glass of wine.  She has no right…”  She trailed off when she saw Alistair join the group. 

            On an average day, Alistair was surprisingly bright and cheerful in the morning, a response long engrained by years of templar training prior to his becoming a Grey Warden.  He greeted everyone with a smile and a jovial attitude, and even if he couldn't brew tea worth a damn, no one minded. 

            This was not an average day. 

            His armor was on but askew, and he was still stuffing things haphazardly into his pack.  No smile graced his face, his features instead drawn and haggard.  Wynne said something as she passed, and when he glanced up, Alana saw that his eyes were swollen and red.  He did not say anything, instead reaching up to run his fingers self-consciously through his hair and dropping his pack in the process.  His shoulders slumped and he studied it on the ground for a long moment before gathering it up again. 

            A rush of guilt flooded Alana, and with it came nausea and pain.  She groaned and clutched her head.  Alistair's eyes, she noted, shot to her when she did but quickly found the ground again, refusing to linger on her. 

            After several uncomfortable minutes wherein Alana tried to get her stomach under control, Zevran leaned over to whisper.  “My dear Warden, I do believe you are supposed to be doing something.”  He gestured before them, where most of the eyes in the group were fixed on her. 

            “Oh, right,” she muttered.  She considered her options: to lead and likely throw up in front of everyone; to lead, fumble through the day, and throw up later, which seemed unlikely; or to allow someone else to lead.  That option seemed best, if the pounding of her head were any indication. 

            She eyed her group.  Zevran wiggled his eyebrows at her, making that decision easy at least.  Leliana glared angrily at her, and Alana wondered if the sister would shoot her, given the chance.  Definitely another easy decision.  Wynne’s posture, bent to listen to one of the Kinloch mages, suggested she would refuse the post if Alana asked her, and she knew that the Circle mages would never agree to follow an apostate like Morrigan either. 

            Her eyes fell to Alistair again.  He looked only marginally more comfortable than before – his pack was slung over his shoulders and he’d straightened his armor, but he still wasn’t smiling or making eye contact. 

            She felt her chest tighten.  Alistair would have been her first choice; he knew the area, and she trusted him. 

            But today wasn’t the day to put him on the spot.  That left only the huge qunari to lead them – not an ideal choice, but the best one she had. 

“Sten,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the road out of town.  “Can you get us on the road?”   

            The qunari studied her, his dark eyes unreadable.  “Of course.  However, I must counsel against showing weakness.  A leader who cannot lead is no leader at all.” 

            “Thanks, Sten,” she grumbled.  “I’ll remember that next time I’m drinking.  Now, can we go?” 

            “Yes.”  He lumbered off, saying nothing to the group.  Morrigan fell into step behind him and was quickly joined by Wynne and the Kinloch mages.  Leliana dawdled until Zevran and Alana started walking before falling in beside the blond elf.  Soon they were embroiled in conversation, leaving Alana and her headache to fend for themselves. 

            The hike out of Redcliffe was brutal.  More than once, Alana stumbled only to catch herself on tree branches or boulders, and everyone, even her mabari, seemed to be ignoring her.  She couldn’t say she didn’t deserve it, but she wondered what was motivating them all to leave her behind.  Surely Alistair would not have spread word of her foolish actions around. 

            She tripped again, and the pounding in her head made it hard for her to catch her balance.  As she tried to right herself, her boot tangled in the roots at her feet.  One hand shot out to catch herself, but it wasn’t going to be enough; she was going down. 

            A warm hand caught her upper arm just before her face made contact with the ground. 

            “Thanks,” she gasped, relieved, and she righted herself only to come face to face with Alistair.  “Oh!”  She couldn’t help it; the surprise popped out of her without any kind of permission from her brain. 

            He gave her a tight-lipped smile, his expression guarded.  “Don’t hurt yourself,” he told her.  Despite everything, he kept his grip on her upper arm while she tugged her boot loose from the roots that had ensnared her.  He did not ask if she was okay.

            Alana guessed that was probably fair. 

            Once she had regained her footing, Alistair dropped his hand and swung something down off his shoulders.  “Here,” he said, shoving a bag at her.  She stared at it for a moment before realizing it was her pack. 

            “Oh,” she said again.  He must have grabbed it from her unoccupied room this morning.  She opened her mouth to say thank you, but he had already walked away. 

            Alana swallowed hard and said nothing, dedicating herself to studying her feet as she walked.  The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass herself again, make Alistair help her again, after everything. 

            With a start, she realized what it really meant that he’d grabbed her pack for her.  Alistair must have wanted to talk with her this morning, so he’d gone by her room looking for her.  Since he was kind, even when hurt, it made sense that he’d grab her things just in case.  But then, when he joined the group… _Oh Maker, no._ When he joined the group, she’d been hanging off Zevran, looking for all the world like she was hungover and just emerging from spending the evening with him.  Leliana’s angry glares certainly didn’t help correct that impression. 

            She stopped where she was and raised her head to study Alistair’s advancing figure.  What must he think of her now?  To see her room empty, and then to see her with Zevran in all his lascivious glory the next morning?   He must assume the worst, and all things considered, she rather deserved it. 

            Behind the group now, she sank down and leaned against one of the many dusty boulders that lined the road north of Redcliffe.  Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away; she hadn’t cried in so long, and to cry now, when she was supposed to be hard and fearless, seemed self-indulgent.   

_You’re not supposed to care what he thinks_ , she reminded herself.  The cold that enveloped her with the thought did little to comfort her. 

            She was starting to feel sick to her stomach again, but she didn’t have time to wallow.  The group was pulling farther and farther away from her, and soon they’d leave her behind.  Someone would notice her absence, but there was no telling how long that would take. 

            Alana forced herself to her feet, bracing her back against the boulder.  She struggled for a moment, coughing as the dust around her settled.  The clear sky above her swirled for a moment, blood rushing from her head, but she managed to stand. 

            She had not taken more than a few steps along the road when Zevran’s smiling face bobbed into view. 

            “You’ve fallen behind, my beautiful darling,” he cooed as he approached. 

            “Hi Zev,” she muttered.  The nausea must have shown on her face, for he wrapped an arm supportively around her as soon as he was close enough. 

            “Are you all right?”  She didn’t have time to shake her head before she was vomiting into the bushes along the trail.  Zevran didn’t say anything, only brushed her hair back and let her empty herself.  He made soothing noises in Antivan all the while. 

            When she finally rocked backward, he helped her stand and cuddled her against his chest.  “Poor Warden,” he murmured into her hair.  Despite herself – and how awful she knew she must smell – Alana couldn’t help collapsing against him.  Her arms snaked around his waist, clinging to his armor, and she burst into tears. 

            Zevran didn’t even blink, only held her until she cried herself out. 

            Eventually, when Alana was just hiccupping and smearing snot on him, the elf gently pushed her away.  With a flourish, he produced a handkerchief.           

            “Are you all right, my dear Warden?”  Alana managed a shaky nod as she wiped her face.  “Am I correct in assuming this has something to do with that darling Alistair?”  Her eyes shot to his, expecting judgment or perhaps disgust written on his face, but he only watched her carefully, sympathy etched into his features. 

            “I fucked it up, Zev,” she told him as she refolded the handkerchief. 

            “I doubt that very much.” 

            “Nope.  I kissed him last night, while I was drunk, and now he probably hates me.  Plus, he thinks we did it since I was with you this morning, and no offense but that’s just gross, and I don’t know--”  She cut her own rambling off when Zevran started chuckling. 

            “Oh dear,” he managed. “I don’t imagine Alistair could hate you.  Not when he is so obviously in love with you.” 

            Alana’s guts clenched in surprise, the breath forced from her lungs, and that mixed with another violent hiccup quickly sent her vomiting into the bushes again. 

            Once again, Zevran held her hair, rubbing her back until the spasm subsided. 

            “That is not normally the reaction upon being told someone loves you,” he observed when she had finished. 

            Alana managed a choked laugh. 

            “Now,” he said, smiling again.  “Perhaps we can get you back to the group, where you belong.” 

            She nodded.  “What am I going to do, Zev?” 

            “It is a matter of the heart, darling.  I only excel at matters of the bedroom.”  He gave her a wink.  For a few moments, he was silent as he supported her back along the path.  “I do believe you two would make a good match,” he ventured eventually. 

            Alana sighed and leaned against him.  “We can’t.  Not with the Blight, and with everything I must be responsible for when it’s through.  I have too much depending on me.” 

            “That seems a silly reason to deny being happy.” 

            “Don’t forget that I’m not a nice person,” she added. 

            Now the elf stopped and faced her, taking her shoulders in his hands.  “Now, Alana,” he said, and his tone dropped all the facetious glamour it normally contained.  “That too is a silly reason.  You are perhaps the nicest person I have ever met.  And that includes a wonderful Rivaini whore I knew in Denerim.”  His voice grew serious again, the joking moment gone.  “Why do you not deserve happiness?” 

            Alana avoided his eyes.  “I’ve done some awful stuff to people before, Zevran,” she explained to their shoes.  “I’m a noble daughter – I was taught to protect myself and my family first.  That didn’t include kindness.” 

            The assassin tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to look at him.  “And did you enjoy that life?”

            Tears welled up in Alana’s eyes.  “I hated it,” she whispered. 

            “Then why return to it?” 

            “I have to,” she said, and pulled away from him.  “It’s my responsibility. I’m the only one left!”  

            Zevran did not follow her at first as she started walking away.  “I understand,” he said softly. 

            She spun around.  “You do?” 

            He nodded.  “Your life was easier before you became a Warden, was it not?”  Alana blinked rapidly.  “Miserable, perhaps, but easier.  You knew where you stood, knew what was expected of you.  That’s all gone now.”  He stepped closer to her, taking her face in his hands.  “It is terrifying to make your own way, whether what came before was enjoyable or not.”  Tears stung her eyes, and she willed herself not to cry.  Not here, not again.

            When she didn’t respond, Zevran sighed and let her go.  “You must make a choice, dear Warden.  But never forget that you deserve happiness.”  He slipped an arm around her waist and guided her toward their companions. 

            They didn’t speak again until Alistair’s back appeared before them, shoulders still slumped.  Alana froze. 

            “What do I do, Zevran?” 

            “Don’t give up, lovely,” he replied.  With yet another flourish, he threw a puff of stealth powders over them to pass Alistair, leaving the warrior looking confused at the dust billowing up behind what to him looked like a passing shadow.  They wove their way to the front of the group, where Zevran stepped out of stealth just in front of Wynne. 

            The old mage jumped, her hand at her throat.  “Zevran! Don’t do that to me!” 

            “I just couldn’t resist,” he smirked. 

            Alana took her place at the front of the group.  Though Wynne gave her a dirty look, she cast a healing aura over the rogue at Zevran’s insistence, and soon her nausea and headache abated.  The others drifted back as the morning wore on, and soon Alana found herself walking just ahead of their little band, a leader once again. 

            Alone with her thoughts, Alana pondered what Zevran had said as she walked.  It was true that she had hated her life as a noble, that she felt more like a pawn than a daughter, but it didn’t mean that she couldn’t be happy.  Maybe she could change things when she went back.  Maybe her life as Teryna would be different, now that her parents were gone and she had to rule Highever alone. 

            She shuddered at the thought.  It was difficult to imagine being a Teryna at 18; she had always known that she was meant to marry some noble son and produce heirs to his name, but ruling had never factored into that.  Her older brother, Fergus, was always supposed to rule. 

            _You’re just remembering it badly because you like being a Warden_ , she told herself.  _You’ll grow into the teryn with time._   But she knew she was lying. 

            With a sigh, she came to the same conclusion she always did:  What she wanted didn’t matter.  Her duties lay elsewhere, and that was it. 

            Whatever was happening between her and Alistair had to stop.  _And what better way to stop it than a sloppy drunken kiss and some bad behavior._

            At the front of the group, Alana squared her shoulders and picked up the pace.  The sooner they reached Kinloch, the sooner they could be off to Denerim, and the sooner they made progress in stopping the Blight. 

            She couldn’t be distracted any longer. 

\---

            Alistair turned his back on Alana before she could see the pain on his face.  He knew he couldn’t hide from her forever, but right then, he couldn’t bear the thought.  The kiss, his sleepless night and fruitless search this morning, finding her with Zevran, and the hurt he saw behind her eyes: he couldn’t deal with any of it, and so he turned away. 

            The road in front of him arched up into the hills, and he adjusted his pack on his back.  Perhaps if he focused on their journey, he could put Alana from his mind. 

            It worked for about 10 minutes – 10 long minutes of studying each boulder he passed, of counting individual leaves, of trying to find shapes in the clouds.  Then one cloud looked like a dagger, which he connected to Alana in the space of a heartbeat, and he was back to pondering what had gone wrong. 

            _Maybe I shouldn’t have run._   Surely the running had hurt his chances of showing her how he felt.  There was no denying that.  He had gone to her room this morning… well, he wasn’t sure why.  To apologize? To ask what was going on? To confess his feelings?

            Alistair cringed.  Now, in light of everything this morning, he struggled to reconcile his feelings about Alana with her actions.  To find her hanging off Zevran… _maybe when I rejected her, she went to someone else._  He blushed.  Inexperienced or not, he had to be a better choice than some sleazy Antivan assassin.  At least he was nicer than Zevran. 

            It didn’t bother him if she had more …experience than him, but it hurt so much to think of her throwing him off like that, as if he didn’t mean anything to her. 

             Cold dread seeped up his spine, a sharp contrast to the sweat he could feel forming as he walked.  _Maybe I_ don’t _mean anything to her._  

            That just couldn’t be true; he didn’t think he could take it if it were true.  He sighed and tried to distract himself again.  He recited important historical dates and figures to himself, trying to get all the way back to Andraste.  When he couldn’t remember the last Divine of the Glory Age, he recited the Chant of Light softly to himself.  When he forgot the second verse of Exaltations, he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried not to scream with frustration. 

            A shadow and a cloud of dust rolled by him.  Moments later, he noticed Alana at the head of their little group.  She spoke with Zevran and Wynne briefly and then there came a pale green light as Wynne cast over her.  Alistair watched as she moved ahead of Sten to lead, and everyone else fell in behind her. 

            So.  She was in charge again.  He didn’t know what that meant; her shoulders were still slumped, and she wasn’t speaking to anyone, so it couldn’t mean much.  Maybe she’d been forced to the front by Wynne.  Maybe she hadn’t really wanted to Sten in charge, or been forced to mitigate a fight, or – With a lurch, his mind settled on one disturbing possibility: Maybe she wanted to be closer to Zevran. 

            He swallowed hard and forced the thought down.  That wasn’t it.  That _couldn’t_ be it.  His grip on his pack tightened until his knuckles were white, and still he couldn’t get away from the idea.  Suddenly, desperately, he wanted to talk to her.  If he could just ask what had happened, or understand what she wanted!  For the hundredth, perhaps thousandth, time, he wondered what he meant to her, and he wasn’t surprised when tears welled up in his eyes.

            But he’d had enough of that the night before, as he’d lain awake wondering if he’d ruined everything, and so he pushed that down too. 

            The group walked for what felt like hours before Alana finally called a halt for lunch.  Alistair didn’t want to admit it, but he’d been studying her figure the whole time: the gentle fall of her hair against her shoulders, the pack on her back bouncing with her steps, the dagger she kept twirling around one wrist.  The hunch of her back had gradually ironed itself out until she was standing straight, the responsibilities of the world seemingly resting on her shoulders. 

            He wondered what she was thinking about when she squared her stance.  Was it him?  Was she upset, like he was?  Was she wondering what had gone wrong?  It was a selfish thought, but one he couldn’t resist.  A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe she was hurting too, that maybe she had expected him to kiss her back or do basically anything other than what he’d done. 

            He shouldn’t have run. 

            The others in front of him started gathering together to eat, and Alistair hesitated to join them.  He saw Alana glance at him, her eyes dark and unreadable, and he looked quickly away. 

He knew he shouldn’t have been staring all morning.  But he couldn’t help how he felt, upset or otherwise.  His thoughts had finally merged into one overpowering urge: He had to talk to her.  They had to reach something like agreement, whether it was to ignore what had happened or to take a step back; there was something between them, Alistair felt sure of that, but now he didn’t know if it would – or could – continue. 

            Despite last night, he was pretty sure he wanted it to continue. 

            That meant they had to talk – which he wasn’t particularly good at.  How was he supposed to make a drunken kiss and him running away better?  If she really was hurt, would she even be open to talking to him?  

            But he had to try. 

\---

            Alana avoided Alistair all through their awkward lunch break.  The group had started off more at ease, the mages making light conversation and Zevran trying to win Leliana over once more.  But soon the presence of an apostate and a qunari had hushed the sheltered Circle mages, and that combined with the brooding silence of their leader and Alistair’s own reluctance to speak had brought uncomfortable silence down upon them all. 

            It was Wynne who suggested they get moving again before even a full hour had passed, and Alana couldn’t have agreed faster.

            The afternoon dragged on indefinitely as they walked.  Alana didn’t bother to check her map even once; they’d have to circle around Lake Calenhad before they ever got close to Kinloch to drop the mages off, and it would be days before they reached its shores.   Instead, she tried to keep her mind focused on where they’d be going next: Denerim.  No one knew what to expect there, not with Cailan dead and Loghain in control, and she wanted to be as prepared as possible.  A list of tasks and provisions sorted itself out as she walked, and it wasn’t until she got to what supplies Alistair would need replenished that she allowed herself to think about him once more. 

            She still didn’t have any idea what to do.  And as she thought about it, there were no true options.  It wouldn’t be fair of her to assume he’d be okay if she left him alone, but neither was it prudent to try to talk to him and force the conversation.  She could apologize, of course, but Alana worried that would send him the wrong message.  After all, any apology could potentially rekindle what her drunken mistake had effectively ended, and she couldn’t do that, not if she wanted to be fair to Alistair. 

            She couldn’t let herself be with him, but she did not want to be cruel either.  Not if she could help it. 

            Alana sighed heavily as she walked, adjusting her bow over her shoulders.  Sten had been carrying it for her most of the day, and she’d only taken it back over lunch.  It felt secure, almost comforting, strung across her chest.   One hand stayed loosely grasping its string, feeling its weight against her body, and she rolled her shoulders to relieve the strain of walking. 

            _I can’t expect anything from him_ , she told herself.  _And he can’t expect anything from me._   But how to accomplish that? Should she say that to him?  Tell him that she didn’t like him, even if she had to lie, and push him away?  She was sure she was hurting him, sweet as he was, but better that she hurt him now than break his heart. 

            In the midst of all this, as the sun was starting to set, Alistair sidled up to her. 

            Alana thought she was imagining him at first, and she couldn’t help her stare.  He moved carefully, like he didn’t want to get too close, and he did not so much as glance in her direction.  Instead he walked in silence beside her, his hands clenching and unclenching on the straps of his pack.  She could see the muscles in his jaw working as he tried to formulate his thoughts, and with each passing moment of silence, the tension between them grew. 

            Finally he looked at her.  For a second, their eyes locked, and Alana watched him take a deep breath, his shoulders moving as if in slow motion.  When he blushed and looked away, she couldn't help how pleased she was to affect him so. 

            Then she remembered everything she'd decided, and the warm feeling in her chest faded. 

            Beside her, Alistair cleared his throat and glanced sideways at her, a hesitant smile on his lips. 

            "So…" he began.  "I have this friend… not me, that would make this too easy… who is having problems with a girl he knows.  She seems fun, you see, but she's also kind of his boss, which makes things… weird." 

            Alana watched him as he spoke, almost tripping over a stone in their path. 

            He continued.  "Well, you see, the other night, she was pretty drunk and she kissed my friend.  Not a very good kiss either, though no offense to my friend's boss." His eyes sparkled at that, and she cracked a small smile.  She might not let herself admit her feelings, but she wanted, _needed_ , him to not hate her, and if this would make things between them easier again, then she'd play along. 

            "A bad kiss, huh? That’s not what you want." 

            Alistair nodded sagely.  "You see, my friend thought that maybe…"  He hesitated, and Alana's chest ached at the expression that darted across his face.  "Well, I guess it doesn't matter what he thought. It's messing things up, and he doesn't know what he did wrong."  He snuck a glance sideways at her to see her watching him.  "Do you… urm, do you think you could give me some advice? That I can pass on to my friend, of course."  He stopped talking and stared at his boots as they walked, his face red once more. 

            "Alistair…"  Alana couldn't think of anything clever to say, nothing that would diffuse their situation and put things right.  This was the moment to squelch what could have been, and so she opted for brutal honesty.  "Alistair, I'm not a nice person." 

            His head snapped up.  "You? Who said anything… about…"  She shook her head and he let the game drop with a small sigh.   "Ok. Fine."  He took a deep breath.  "I don't believe you." 

            Alana stopped walking and grabbed his arm.  "I mean it, Alistair," she insisted, dropping her voice as their party gained distance ahead of them.  "I am not nice.  I know I seemed otherwise for the short time you've known me, but I'm not.  I'm mean, I hurt people who get close to me, and I don't like having responsibilities.  We are here, fighting the Blight, because we don't have a choice.  Someday I'll go back to rule Highever, because I don't have a choice.  I would run if I could." 

            "No you wouldn't," he said quietly, staring down into her blue eyes. 

            "Yes," she insisted, squeezing his arm for emphasis.  "Yes, I would." 

            He pulled his arm away and crossed them protectively over his chest.   "That doesn't sound like the Alana I know, the woman who saved a little boy from a demon.  The woman who became a Grey Warden, the woman who I --" His voice rose as he went on, only to fall short on his last words.  He seemed to shrink before her eyes, his shoulders slumping. 

            Now Alana’s words spilled forth unbidden.  "You don't know what my life was before all that, Alistair.”  She clung to her past, pushing back the tears that welled up. "You don't know _me_ , and I can't do that to you.  There is nothing here for you.  I'm sorry if… if you thought we were anything other than just…" She didn't know how to finish her thought.  Everything she wanted rushed up inside her, tightening her chest and filling her heart, and she forced it back down.  She had to do this, for both their sakes.  "I'm sorry." 

            His eyes were soft when he finally looked at her.  "I just… have trouble believing that about you," he said quietly.

            "It's the truth."  Her voice came out louder than she meant it, and she saw Wynne glance back in their direction.  "I should go.  We'll be making camp soon."  She turned away, dropping their eye contact, but Alistair grabbed her elbow as she moved. 

            "Can we… I mean, we have to… I don't mind having a mean friend," he finished lamely. 

            She almost laughed.  _After all that, he could still want me._   The absurdity of it was almost unbelievable.  "You do, and you will.  But we can work together, and if we end up friends, then that's okay with me."  She offered him a cheerless smile, her eyes sad. 

            "Okay," he said quietly.  "Friends it is." 

            "And I'm sorry I kissed you," she added, her voice regaining its strength.  Perhaps if she reminded him of what she'd already done, he'd stop.  "I don't normally get that drunk, but I can't say I haven't misled someone before."  He studied her, his brown eyes flitting over her face as he considered this.  "Told you I was mean," she added when he didn't speak, and she turned away, her words settling heavy in her chest. 

            She pushed to the front of the group, putting as much space between them as possible, and did not look back.  She didn't want to see the pain on his face, the disappointment she had seen on so many faces after her choices in her former life. 

            She should have looked back.  If so, she would have seen Alistair standing in the middle of the path, staring off into space as the group left him gradually behind.  She would have seen him fumble with the straps of his pack and dig a book up from the very bottom, right next to the chalice used for the Joining.  And she would have seen him take a pressed red rose out from between those pages and study it -- the rose he'd been carrying since Lothering, the rose he'd picked for her -- before closing his eyes and replacing it carefully back where it had been, just in case. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!


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